


Paradise On The Ground

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Belts, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Frottage, Gangbang, Humiliation, Implied Past Aomine Daiki/Kise Ryouta, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Addiction, So Mild You Might Have To Squint, Spanking, Strangers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unprotected Sex, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Kise makes soft, hungry noises against the man's lips, drawing the features he refuses to see into a face he knows—the byproduct of a boy that burned the lines of his physiognomy into his mind long ago. He lets it fill his head, makes himself believe that he was born for this in the same vein he believes he was born to die.
Relationships: Kise Ryouta/Other(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Paradise On The Ground

**Author's Note:**

> I left the strangers in this story unnamed and without too much description so you can visualize Kise with whomever you want.

Kise doesn't know their faces. He doesn't know their names. He doesn't know _why_ or when all of this began—when he started looking for random men to fuck him into boneless satisfaction or when he allowed himself to be degraded and abused more often than not. When he bothers to think about it at all, he knows that it should concern him, that he should care about disease transmission, tissue damage and serious injury, among other things, the bruises that reduce his makeup artists to tears, his reputation... Not to mention what it's doing to his self-esteem and the things he no longer feels that he knows he should. He should care—he should stop what he's doing—but on a scale balancing importance and interest, Kise can't be bothered to rectify the situation.

Kise drops to the floor, his fingers scraping worn carpet as another stranger enters the room. The smell of smoke is strong enough to burn through his nostrils, underscored by leather and shoe polish. He closes his eyes, having been here so many times before. He's memorized all the places where the plaster is cracked and where water stains the ceiling. It's not the kind of place a fastidious model such as himself should be, but he knows he'd rather be here than spend another night alone.

It smells faintly of disinfectant and sex, making Kise wonder how many lost souls have come to this very room for the same reason he's down on his hands and knees. It's a utilitarian room, at least, but somewhere in the back of his mind he still wishes he was worth more than rattling lead pipes and piss-stained carpet—he wishes he could make himself believe that he was worthy of beauty and ornamentation.

Jesus Christ, it's been so long since he's held himself to any value. He can no longer recall a time when he loved himself, or when he wasn't addicted to... _this_. It's almost as if his former life was nothing more than the flower petals that used to litter his bed, carried away by the wind and destroyed by the sands of time.

Though, he _does_ remember a time when he made love; when moonlight sprawled across expensive sheets and the summer air made his skin slick with sweat. When there was warmth and kindness and everything seemed entirely too perfect.

The memory seems stale now, like it's a figment of his imagination, and he doesn't know how much longer he can survive if this is all that's real anymore. He just knows that he can't keep thriving on being sad.

These men don't coax Kise into sex with gentle caresses or loving kisses. They don't offer tenderness or the kind of words that make Kise blush from the charming sentiment behind them. If color rises in Kise's cheeks, it's from the filth that slips past their lips and the coarse compliments that scrape against the nail-marred skin blanketing his back.

Kise feels strong hands cup his face, then his head is forcibly tipped back so their owner can steal a kiss from his smooth lips, still coated in an exotic lip balm he got to keep from one of his sponsors. He doesn't open his eyes, he's not interested in the man's looks. He wants to _feel_ this; he doesn't want distractions, doesn't want his standards to call forth the vanity that could ruin this for him. His pride is still a pretty thing, but his mental acuity has long been burned by desire.

Kise furrows his brow in concentration and allows the man's tongue into his mouth. There's a hand on the base of his spine, stroking heat into his skin as a second hand comes down on his ass, hard and violent. Kise whimpers and rocks forward, now sucking on the tongue in his mouth with an air of encouragement. There's an arrogant chuckle coming from somewhere near his right side but he doesn't care. He takes their ridicule and accepts their cruelty because he's not strong enough to deny himself of this.

Kise makes soft, hungry noises against the man's lips, drawing the features he refuses to see into a face he knows—the byproduct of a boy that burned the lines of his physiognomy into his mind long ago. He lets it fill his head, makes himself believe that he was born for this in the same vein he believes he was born to die.

It's too late to turn black to gold, too late to right his wrongs, so Kise doesn't fight when a pair of calloused palms spread him open, doesn't flinch when the man spits just above his entrance, viscous and lukewarm.

“Would you look at that?”–a finger smears saliva into the sensitive tissue around his sex–“Pretty boy here is already wet.”

Kise pours his energy into the kiss, making it as slow and filthy as he can manage. He knows it's a form of welcome distraction but the sound of loneliness keeps him grounded—he still can't decide whether he loves or hates when they talk. Teeth sink into his bottom lip and the pain of it coaxes a muffled groan out of his throat, makes him shiver all the way down to his toes.

“So you like a little pain, do you?” comes another voice, making Kise wonder just how many men have shown up tonight. He smiles at the thought of it: men telling their friends about a boy who's eager and willing—an ample opportunity that can't be missed. It satisfies the bones of his self-pride, makes him compare himself to a delicacy crafted from spun sugar and the highest quality ingredients one can buy.

Fingers slide through his hair, tugging his head back at a dangerous angle and stretching his neck so taut that it borders on uncomfortable. A cool breath follows, ghosting the shell of his ear and making him shiver. “I asked you a question, boy.”

Kise struggles to swallow what little saliva remains on his tongue, the muscles in his throat straining against chords of tension. He manages to nod once despite the fist that has formed around his golden strands.

“Good boy,” the man says, arrogance dripping from his serpent's tongue like venom.

Kise shudders when the sound of leather cuts through the air, a sound he knows all too well. The pain that follows sparks up his spine, threads through his nervous system to lance through the most sensitive components that make up his body. He jerks forward and curls his fingers in against the floor. Another blow is quick to follow, and he doesn't have to look to know that his flawless complexion has became shaded like overripe fruit. The sound of leather against flesh fills the room, sinks into the depths of Kise's hearing, and transforms into an audible cry.

“More,” Kise gasps, dropping his hips in an attempt at friction that doesn't come. His cock twitches with each sharp point of contact, now pressed tightly against his stomach and smearing precome against his abdomen.

“What was that? You want more?” The nails that scrape against Kise's scalp are shorter than those that belonged to the last hand. He notices this as fingers curl against the crown of his head and tug his attention upright. Kise winces when two fingers push past the seam of his lips, knuckles catching on his teeth. He wishes that they would just tell him what they want since he's more than willing, but he supposes that would ruin all their fun. These men come from the underbelly of Tokyo, no doubt. Casual sex to them would be a shipless ocean to an avid sailor, boring, fruitless, and prosaic.

Regardless, the taste of cigarettes and grease and salt weigh heavily on his tongue and it's not something he can acclimate himself to.

The sullied digits leave his mouth, only to be hastily replaced by the man's cock, hard and pulsing with need. Kise leans forward a fraction, focus pinned on the flesh swelling in his aperture. It's not an easy task considering the burning ache overwhelming his ass or the fingers now teasing at his entrance. He thinks about how, come tomorrow, his skin will be so seamed with welts that he'll be unable to walk properly—that he'll feel their ridges across his bottom when he touches his flesh—and it's _almost_ enough.

He drags his tongue up the length of the man's cock, root to tip, ears straining to hear the satisfaction that vibrates through his chest. He has to contend with subtlety when it comes, knowing that giving head is something he's always excelled at. It might not get him into a good university but Kise takes what he can get. He swirls his tongue around the ridge, wetting the head and sucking just enough to strum the stranger into sound, his hips jerking forward to drive his cockhead to the dark shadow of Kise's throat. Kise pays close attention to his teeth as he takes the man deeper, humming around his salt-hard member. He applies just the right amount of suction as he slides his mouth down his cock, tonguing the beading slit as he applies sufficient pressure all in the name of making him shudder.

Kise can hear the shuffle of feet amid the slick sounds of the shameless men who have less restraint than the others. They stroke their cocks idly as they stand by to observe the salacious show in front of them and Kise wonders how many have fit themselves into the room at this point.

“I'm gonna open you up, pretty boy. I want to see how much this pussy can handle.”

It takes ever grain of Kise's poise to keep his stability when the stranger lines the head of his cock up against his entrance and pushes his way into his body. Kise gasps and the cock filling his mouth slips free, stays absent as he inhales a series of shaky breaths until the slide comes easier. Electricity pulses through his chest and lances through each thrum of his quickening heart rate, each shock branching electrical discharge through his body. “Oh... _oh god_ ,” Kise pants, shaky and unsteady.

A hand suddenly closes around his throat, promptly followed by a sharp smack that radiates a dull ache across his cheek. Kise whines and opens his mouth for the previously abandoned cock, which beats a steady rhythm against the back of his throat no sooner than Kise makes the unspoken offer. Saliva escapes from his mouth and wets his chin as he tries to shift his breathing to his nose.

“Fuck,”–firm hands find his hips and each thrust that follows comes harder–“this boy has one tight cunt. It's impressive when you consider all the times he's been fucked.”

“That's fantastic news. Now, hurry it up. I'd like a chance with him at some point before the night ends.”

Kise is struggling to catch his breath and it's made know by the sharp, almost shrill sound that comes from his nose. His eyes are beginning to water, his palms are sweaty and his hands are starting to shake, and a distant thought makes him wonder if tonight is going to be his last. He can't seem to focus his vision when he finally cracks open his eyes—narrowed to slits to block out the artificial light buzzing above—in a reflexive reaction that tells him he needs to see. The cock in his mouth pulses and the body it belongs to tenses. Thin ropes of come hit the back of his throat and Kise wills his muscles to relax around the capitulating cock to swallow it down.

Kise knows at heart and dyed-in-the-wool that he's better than this; he knows that he stands above these men. The lies he spins are sharp enough to cut through his skin but he just can't seem to convince himself that he doesn't love this. He drags his tongue over his lips, wincing as salt burns the narrow split spread across the bottom line of his mouth.

“This isn't all he can handle, I'd be willing to bet half of my savings on it.”

Kise doesn't recognize the voice and he's positive that he hasn't heard it yet tonight. He doesn't know what he's referring to but it doesn't matter because the cock buried deep in his ass is enough encouragement to drown out his suspicion. He wants to wipe the mess from his chin but he knows that they like him like this, defiled and dishonored—so he drops his head and prepares himself for the next wayward soul to make use of his mouth.

It isn't long before the man painting bruises on his hips finishes, groaning as he spills a wealth of semen inside of Kise's thrumming channel. Kise whimpers and nuzzles his cheek against the cock that's smearing precome against his lips. The stretch that comes with being filled up abandons him, leaves him feeling empty as come drips down his trembling thighs. He chews on his bottom lip absentmindedly, jerking in surprise when come splashes across the small of his back.

“I say we have him give us a show. I bet he's an expert at fucking himself. Let him get nice and prepared for us.”

Kise blinks in an attempt to drive away the heat glazing his vision while his arms strain to keep him upright. His cock is full and heavy, flushed, and dripping. It hurts in a way that leaves him keening, wishing on a thousand stars that he could come. A bottle of loose-lidded lube lands in the space between his palms and Kise suddenly understands.

“Why?” Kise rasps, his voice hoarse and mouth dry. His throat feels raw and the burn that settles in against the shadow of it spreads down to his lungs.

“We're gonna see just how much we can fill you up, princess.”

Kise furrows his brow and ponders just how many men plan to force their way inside of him tonight. He's used to taking more-than-average sized men, even managed to take two at once before, but the sound of the man's tone carries a threat that plucks at what little of Kise's apprehension is left. Notwithstanding the feeling of disquiet, he throws caution to the wind and falls back on his heels, needing this too badly to care about what happens to him. It's not as if he can help that he's attracted to danger and he's never been one to mull over the potential outcome of anything.

“Just resign yourself to the fact that this is what you're good at, kid. Now start preparing yourself or we're gonna do this the hard way.”

Kise shakes his head in a needless gesture to clear his mind. Hair clings to his cheeks, damp with sweat and come and spit. He realizes that he's been stationary, paralyzed by his own unspoken reflection. He focuses on a stain that goes deep into the carpet fibers, his hands working in tandem to open the bottle of lube. He pours an adequate amount into his palm and lets some of it drip between his fingers. He can hear static in the air, can feel the tension that breeds impatience spreading thick throughout the room. He reaches behind himself, arching his back and moaning for show. He sinks his fingers past his still-stretched entrance, the viscous evidence the previous man left in him catching on his skin. He opens himself up and his breathing hitches, comes fast and hard. He closes his eyes slowly and his lashes flutter as he clings to the familiar burn and stretch that overtakes his muscles.

“That's a good boy. Get nice and wet for us.”

Kise moans a sound that starts low and breaks into a shuddering exhale as his heart dilates into praise. He's impoverished by need—so _desperate_ for something alive, something to swallow him whole and hollow out his bones. He cants his hips forward and his cock smears a new sheen of wetness against his belly as it twitches in anticipation and hope.

“How long are we gonna stand here and watch him? I wanna _feel_ that pussy around my dick. I wanna make him sing for me.”

Kise parts his lips, “ _Please_ ,” he breathes.

“I'm not waitin' for ya to make a move. I'm fuckin' him.”

Kise can hear the press of heavy boots against the floor as his heart pounds wildly in his chest. He slides his fingers out of his heat and wipes the slick against his thigh as he mentally prepares himself for whatever fate awaits him.

He's pushed forward without preamble which causes him to crumble into resistance against the floor. He doesn't have time to recover because the man is already tugging at his hips to align his torrid member up against Kise's entrance. There's little contest when he pushes forward, entering Kise's body so deep that the blond wants to weep for the tidal flood of satisfaction that surges through his veins. The sensation is almost sweet enough to be deemed amorous. It quenches his spiritual thirst and carries him to the wells of complacency where people like him pray; where the liars lie and the destitute dream. It's the kind of place where people speak in tongues of kinship and the hopeless howl at the castles in the sky.

Kise doesn't bother trying to rally the strength that's been compromised by the breathtaking intrusion. He lets himself switch over into a state of autopilot, where the curvature of his spine bends like a bow and his musculature draws taut like the string. His posture allows for his body to take the man deeper, just beyond the borders of the preceding penetration.

Kise squeezes his eyes shut tight and twists his fingers into the unkempt threads of carpet beneath him. The unfamiliar man is relentless and unyielding, snapping his hips forward as he fucks Kise in an act of earnest commitment. There's something to be said about his stamina because his breathing is composed and his hands are steady; his skin catches against Kise's in a way that suggests only the beginnings of sweat. Kise can feel the hard lines of his body and his innate strength in the way he's pounding into him, and there's something about the way he's clinging to Kise's hips that spells secrecy.

There's thunder breaking in his ears and lightning in his gilded gaze, fulminant and bright. It shoots down the lengths of his arms and crackles in his fingertips as pleasure meets pain. He can feel saliva pooling in the corner of his mouth and he thinks to catch it on his tongue but when friction drags heat over his prostate he forgets about it entirely—lost like a ghost in a burning sea.

“Oi, move over. I wanna fuck him too.”

Kise doesn't feel guilty about what he's doing and it's easy to pretend that he's not culpable for his actions regardless. But he feels filthy and fierce and full—and that's before the finest hits him where it hurts—the slick, slow slide of a second cock stretching him to crowded fulfillment. For a second, it feels like true love, like gold and silk and fever dreams. It gives him a millisecond to breathe, and all at once, unanticipatedly, he's buying into his own misery. He frames his lips on a scream and lets it bounce off the damaged walls like a cry for help.

“That's it, precious. _Fuck_. I could get off on that hopeless little scream. Makes me so hard—gets my blood pumping. Let me hear ya, boy. Be as loud as you want.”

Kise knows how the end unfolds which is the only thing that keeps him tethered to the ground that tilts beneath him. He presses his forehead into the tainted carpet and begins to cry openly. His chest heaves as he gulps for breath. His hair is damp along the line of his scalp and dark at his temples as a result of tiny sweat droplets, but the ends of his flaxen strands still manage to graze the sharp angle of his jaw every time he's pushed forward.

He feels the belt that left his ass in a sensitive state—still tingling from its touch—wrap around his neck. He gags his way into labored breathing and paws feebly at the cool leather while letting himself be pulled upright. He's forced into his previous stance and barely has time to inhale his next breath before a cock enters his mouth. The tan hide cuts into his throat before the dangerous pressure finally relents. Kise chokes briefly, but if the man fucking into his mouth has anything to say about it, he doesn't digress.

Kise doesn't know how many cocks he succeeds in sucking in the time it takes for the first man—or who he assumes is the first—to withdraw from the radiant heat of his body. He strokes over himself roughly, the drag of his fist against slick distinct, then Kise feels hot, sticky emission spatter the delicate curvature of his spine. He tries to swallow the come that spurts across his tongue but he can't. His throat aches and his stomach lurches at the notion of consuming more heat and salt. He lets it spill over his lips instead, lets long fingers smear it into his cheeks.

Kise feels his innermost muscles tighten around the cock that remains in his ass, whimpering when his thighs begin to spasm and throb with the effort of keeping himself balanced. He drops his weight and stretches his arms out in front of him, hoping to alleviate the strain in his thighs. His hardness, now spreading to the point of painful, brushes the coarse threads beneath him, and that's when Kise feels the final threads of his fortitude unravel.

He cries out, fingers tugging at his hair as he grinds himself down against the floor, beyond the bounds of shame, and welcoming the humiliation that follows. He knows that it's a hit against his pride, he's become intimate with their snide smiles and their derisive comments toward his state of distress, but he can't think of anything that would be enough to restore his resilience anyway so he lets his ego join in the bruises that mottle his body.

“You're such a little cockslut, aren't you?”

Kise tries to nod but his skull feels too heavy to move so he turns his head and lets his cheek rest against the floor instead, a weak smile taking over the shape of his lips. The cheap grain coupled with his state of undress scratches his skin, makes him itchy and uncomfortable, but it gives him something to pin his focus to. Sensation sings up his spine and he can't hold in the broken sobs that come in waves, spilling out of his mouth like a severed prayer.

“Do you want to come?” A line of uneven nails cut into his hips, carving neat crescent-shaped indentations into his skin.

“Yes,” Kise manages, throat straining against the vibration of sound.

“Touch yourself. I want you to curl those dainty fingers around your cock and bring yourself off. Give us another show, princess. We all know how much you like attention. Don't hold back on us now. I know I'm not the only one here who's jerked off on your magazine covers. Model for us, pretty boy.”

Something rooted deep inside of Kise comes breaks. He files down the edges of his exhaustion and utilizes the last dregs of his strength to arch his back, then he wedges a hand between his trembling frame and the floor. He wraps his fingers around his length and begins to stroke his cock between a sequence of irregular caresses and rough drags of his fist.

The cock centered in his ass twitches and the stranger behind him exhales a sound of pleasure, making him, Kise believes, the third man to come in him tonight— _or is it the fourth?_ —Kise can't keep count. He rocks forward and fucks into his hand in a blur of motion. The friction almost _hurts_ but he just wants to come—he _needs_ to come so badly he can taste longing in the back of his throat.

“Come on, pretty boy. Give it up.”

Kise tears into his bottom lip, whimpering in cadence with a moan that sounds a touch too much like despair. He can taste blood on his tongue, can feel his lip pulsing between the straight edges of his teeth. He holds onto the sensation as he succumbs to desire, pleasure knotting in the low of his belly. He rends the air with a broken sob, body shaking so violently his teeth chatter and his limbs ache. Darkness swamps the corners of his vision and he wonders if he's going to pass out.

“Would you look at that.”

Kise flinches when a finger circles his entrance, hypersensitive and exhausted. He feels like he's outside of himself, like he's standing on the grounds of a scene that he shouldn't be trespassing on. He tries to dispel the strange thought, breath coming in ragged pants that scrape ice against his lungs despite the heat burning holes through his chest.

Kise feels hands settle on his pert cheeks before they open him up, slick leaking out of his abused and likely torn entrance. It makes his cheeks burn hot and flushes the tips of his ears pink. The rosy shade moves down his neck and darkens the contused line of his throat. He constricts his muscles weakly, then relaxes, and it's just enough to release some of the come still inside of him.

Kise rolls over and onto his back, driving the tension out of his body until he's limp and boneless against the floor. He can imagine the mosaic of contusions shading his complexion among the bite marks he'll find later tonight if he can find the energy to clean the steam from his bathroom mirror.

It used to be surprising—how fast they disbanded, almost offensive. Now, Kise is grateful for the quiet freedom, clear of their condescending comments, saved from their salacious solicitation. Kise closes his eyes and ruminates, their touches still tangible deep inside of him, even with their vacancy. He shudders and exhales a shaky breath, then coughs once. He wonders if he'll ever be free of this predilection, free of the darkness that curls comfortably around his soul and the rabid dog that tears into his heart.

He shivers after seconds shift into minutes, body abused and growing cold like the bones buried underground. He winces as he curls into himself, lying on the floor as if awaiting the carrion crows. He laughs but there's no humor in the sound. He thinks that he belongs here, and he doesn't mind, not really, but he wishes that he could _justify_ it. He wishes that he could be held or even rest at someone's feet—wishes that someone would just care about him, even if only for a moment. He wants someone to want him for _him_ , not just his body, but even he doesn't know who he is anymore.

Kise crawls across the floor and reaches for his jeans when the chill becomes too much to bear. He gets dressed, hissing in pain as denim scrapes over the thick welts that line his backside. He thinks that he should quit coming here, that he should quit subjecting himself to the tortures that leave him questioning his sanity.

He shrugs into his coat and sneaks out the back. He offers up a smile at a face that has become familiar to him. One of the few that he's allowed himself to see.

“See you next week?” the man asks, leaning against the side of the building, a lit cigarette burning between his long fingers.

“You bet,” Kise grins, ignoring the way the streets whisper his name.

There's no room for innocence when his hands have never been clean and he's been choked by the impurities of immorality. There's only repetition and acceptance, and Kise's belief in the goodness of individuals has been scarred for much longer than he's been allowing strangers to infect his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
